Undying Loyalty
by Deckenpuppel
Summary: A group of Forsaken soldiers, hunting for human survivors in the aftermath of the Cataclysm, run into something they did not expect; an old enemy they had already deemed destroyed.


Undying Loyalty

The night was black as pitch. Gloomy clouds covered every inch of the sky, shrouding the land in an all-engulfing darkness that almost swallowed even the pristine white coating of the Alterac mountains. Yet darkness did not reign undisputed that night. Lightning tore through the blackness time and time again, banishing the shadows with flashes of thundering light, only to ultimately succumb to the darkness again. The air was freezing. A strong wind howled agonizingly through the canyons and valleys. It was a night in which no living being would want to be outside.

Yet at least one of the canyons was filled with strange activity. A big group of ghostly lights shone in the darkness, too dim and otherworldly to be mistaken for torches. The mysterious lanterns moved forward in union, shedding just enough light on their surroundings to reveal the outlines of lurking figures moving through the night. Only the light of the thunderbolts provided glimpses of the terrifying truth. Rotting flesh and bare bones flashed up in the night, alongside frail skin stretched over gaunt skulls, dislocated jaws and ever grinning-grimaces. The unholy orbs of surreal light within the corpses' now empty eye sockets only completed the mockery of life.

No words were spoken. The undead marched in silence. Only the soft crunching of the snow and the clinking of the corpses' uniformed armour echoed through the night. Shields were strapped upon their backs, all showing the same sign: the shattered mask of a female face, together with three tattered arrows over an stylized bird of prey.

It was the Icon of Torment; the crest of the Forsaken.

At the head of the group marched a figure clearly identifiable as its officer. In life, the human must have been handsome, and even death had not been able to deprive him of all of it. Long skeins of black hair still fell over his shoulders and danced in the wind together with his dark cloak. Completely oblivious to the freezing air that was forming ice crystals on his sickly, purplish skin, the Forsaken officer scanned his surroundings with detached and vigilant efficiency; a behaviour that would have been almost unthinkable for the man Magan Blacksling had once been.

Not that thoughts like this concerned him any more; not for a long time. Magan knew who he was, what he was, and what to think of the world for being the place that it had turned out to be. The Banshee Queen had tasked him and his fifty men to venture into the mountains and slay what refugees they might find, and carrying out her wishes was all that still mattered to him. He was a soldier. He was following orders. It was as simple as that and all that remained to give his so-called life purpose.

They had discovered the tracks of maybe a dozen humans and a few dwarves a couple of hours earlier that day. No fresh snow had fallen that night, and following the trail had been only too easy for the seasoned soldiers. Magan expected to find his prey soon. The living were weak. They would have sought shelter by now, tired from their long march and threatened by the freezing cold. It pleased Magan. That he and his kind no longer shared these flaws provided him with some gleeful satisfaction. He had no compassion for the living. After all, they would just get what they deserved. Above him deafening thunder roared in agreement.

He turned his attention back to the path ahead. The canyon was once more bending around the foot of one of the huge mountains. Magan would have sighed had he possessed the breath to do so. It would take them days to find their way out of the mountains, and all just because those traitors of the Frostwolf clan refused to provide them with guides and maps of the area. The Dark Lady would make the Orcs regret that decision very soon, trusted Magan. He was already looking forward to it.

They ventured through the curve in disciplined lines of two. Snow-covered boulders and rocks littered the path from here on, creating crooked pathways with countless hiding places. Magan signalled his troops to stop. He did not like the look of it. It was an ideal site for an ambush and easily defendable, even with just a few capable men. Maybe the humans were waiting for him to walk blindly into this trap, believing him to be too confident to consider them a threat. But they were wrong. Magan would not take any chances with this mission.

Again, jagged lightning tore the sky apart. With a thundering roar, a trident of dazzling light forked down, exploding in a section of the mountain hulking over the pass. Pebbles and rubble showered down upon the undead soldiers. The stones posed no real threat to their resilient bodies, but the remnants of human instincts were enough to cause many warriors to duck or to raise their shields above their heads, including Magan himself.

The pebbles and rocks bounced harmlessly off his shield and spotted the ground around him. Magan recovered quickly, irritated and annoyed by his lack of control. Cursing silently, he tore his gaze away from the mountain. He directed it towards the narrow canyon once more, and froze. The path, that a moment ago had been deserted, was now blocked. An armoured figure had appeared out of nowhere, standing motionlessly between the boulders like an ancient guardian, a huge cloak dancing around him like a sentient veil of darkness. Involuntarily, Magan stepped back and tore free his sword. His men quickly followed.

The newcomer greeted them with an arrogant, mocking laughter. His voice was hollow, a whispering yet strong echo of the real voice the man must once have possessed. His face was hidden under a horned helmet. Behind its slits shone the same ghostly light that Magan knew was granting him his own sight, and that gave testimony about the strangers undead nature. His armour was thick and heavy, black in colour, and covered with ornaments, matching his long cloak. The most prominent feature, however, was the weapon the warrior was leaning on in a defiant pose. The sword was both gruesome and elegant, the hilt decorated with multiple depictions of screaming skulls, while the blade was steaming with mystical blue mist originating from runes of power inscribed on the blade.

A nervous murmur rose from the Forsaken. They all knew only too well what kind of person was standing before them.

"Greetings, traitors," said the death knight, an amused tone mixed under his cold voice. "My master told me I would find you here."

"We have no quarrel with the Ebon Blade," Magan replied, stepping forward. "Nor with its master. What do you want, death knight?"

Again the absent, mocking laughter of the knight reverberated from the mountains.

"The Ebon Blade?" the knight asked. "I hardly think so. You see, I do not know why, nor do I care in accordance with my master's wishes, but it seems that the tables have turned somehow. You have become the scourge haunting these lands, and those who remain loyal are now destined to oppose you in your conquest. Ironic, isn't it?"

No one answered. The Forsaken held their ground, strangely mesmerized by the stranger's words. When the spell faded, a transformation swept through the soldiers' ranks. At first it was nothing visible, just a tangible shade that seemed to claim the men's minds. It did not take long to become more than that. Confusion rushed over the Forsaken's faces. Uneasy glances were exchanged. Some even lowered their guard, suddenly completely oblivious to their surroundings.

None of the men present was weak-willed or a coward. A strong will and determination had always been the characterizing marks of their kind. Those who lacked it never lasted long. They had all survived the transition. They were all battle-hardened veterans. None of them was easily frightened or distracted.

And still. The words of the death knight, cryptic as they had been, had touched upon something that lurked within every single on of them. It was a trigger, dredging up a primal fear, sourced in the scars of their grim fate, something that they never could completely forget. Even they themselves could not understand it at first, for their conscious mind was unable to look past what they thought they knew.

Their feelings, however, knew no such boundaries, and they had not forgotten the terrors of the past. They nurtured the fear that was growing inside the shrivelled hearts of the undead soldiers. The men tried to control it, but the fear became undeniable and began to gnaw at the fabric of their reality. It forced its way through and doubt began to seep into their minds, slowly eroding what the curse had left of their sanity.

In that moment, they were all thinking the same thing: what if what they had been told was wrong? What if the nightmare was not over?

The thought tore a hole into Magan's soul. Every inch of his being rebelled like a mad beast. It could not be true. This one victory and certainty was not to be taken from them. It was who they were, what they had vowed to fulfil on from the first day of their pitiful existence. They needed this revenge like the living needed to breathe. Without it, there was no sense in their existence.

Something snapped in Magan's mind. Fear and despair mingled within him into a murderous rage. Where blood no longer could, anger now surged through his veins, freeing him of the invisible chains that held him locked in place. Furiously, he stepped forward, vowing defiantly that he would not allow this lie to break him. It simply was impossible. It had to be.

"Not the Ebon Blade?" he shouted, his ghostly voice escalating into hysteria."You are mad! You must be! The Lich King is dead!"

Across from him, the death knight just chuckled.

"No," the knight whispered back, gleefully savouring the word and revelling in the despair it visibly brought to all the Forsaken. He did it with so much cruel delight that Magan could not bring himself to dismiss it as another lie. The phantom of a cold shiver ran down his spine. All his anger evaporated within a single second, leaving only emptiness behind. It was true, came the smothering realization, the Lich King was still alive. His gaze lost itself in the void. His world had been broken.

The knight raised his sword and hoisted it over his shoulder. Instantly, something began to stir within the darkness. Sickly, decaying figures moved from the shadows, appearing behind boulders and stones as if called upon with an unspoken command, amassing behind their leader. They outnumbered the Forsaken at least two to one. Most of the Forsaken did not seem to care.

The death knights mocking laughter filled the air.

"So, the lost lambs are finally ready for slaughter," he mused. "So be it. Minions! Cast them into oblivion!"

In that very moment, the earth below the Forsaken exploded. Spiderlike monsters burst forth from below the frozen ground, slashing and slamming, throwing the Forsaken's formation into complete disarray. Then the rest of the undead charged and the outnumbered and outmatched servants of the Banshee Queen did not stand a chance. They were torn apart one by one.

Magan did not fight. He did not even try. The world had gone mad again, and whatever feeling of purpose or connection to this life he had felt had been washed away by the sudden flood of violence and despair. The last thing he ever felt was the death knight's runeblade cutting through his neck. His head landed in the snow with a muffled sound, still staring north into the distance. In his vanishing mind, his gaze transcended time and space, reaching Northrend, Icecrown and finally the Frozen Throne. There, Bolvar Fordragon, the jailor of the damned, sat frozen in solid ice... and smiled.

The End


End file.
